Traipsing Through Time
by Renghery
Summary: The year was 1943; Dumbledore really didn't like these political parties that the Ministry organised every summer, not when Hitler and Grindelwald were out there, destroying the world as they knew it. Bored out of his mind, with Minerva on his arm, he really wasn't expecting to bump into Harry Jones, much less, that this man might turn the tide in the war... HP!Time-Travel


**hope you like this. rewrite of a story I used to have on a different account. Deleted it, now I'm reposting it, corrected. **

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"…I want a three feet essay on the relationship between the wolf and the moon on my desk first thing tomorrow morning, understood?" The joint class of Gryffindors, Ravenclaws and Slytherins groaned loudly and started gathering all of their supplies when the bell rang. Harry allowed himself a small smirk as the last one filed out of his classroom; he remembered sitting down by the fireplace each night, scrambling to find information on whatever topic the next assignment had to be. Somehow, in the end, Ron and Harry had always been forced to ask Hermione for _her_ notes.

He quietly made his way around his desk and started to collect his own materials. His gaze fell upon the class registry and he noted how small it was. Even with three houses put together in one class, it was still only a little over twenty students large. Even years later, the 'recent' war continued to have a deep effect on society.

Harry, like the students that had just scrambled to leave his classroom was eager to get to lunch. More so than usual, because he was particularly eager to hear what Neville would say about his Defence Against the Dark Arts mastery thesis, which he would be sending to the ministry in just a few days when he was done proofreading it. Neville, although more gifted in herbology (he was, after all, the herbology department head), had developed a certain flair for academics and seemed to have a constant yearning for knowledge that Harry had rarely seen during their own student days.

Walking at a faster pace than usual, Harry quickly made it down to the Great Hall. It was already packed with students when he entered and he felt a few stray eyes follow his movements. Most of these students had gotten used to the fact that Harry Potter, The-Man-Who-Conquered, was their Defence teacher and some of the older students didn't even seem to care much anymore. At Hogwarts he was known as the strict, but kind, if a little eccentric impartial teacher.

Harry eagerly sat down next to Neville and noted that the latter had started to acquire some grey hairs and wrinkles - which only served to remind Harry that he, as well, wasn't getting any younger.

"So, did you read it?" Harry asked after a moment. Neville shot him an exasperated look.

"You certainly didn't waste any time, I see." His tone was dry and sardonic. Harry rolled his eyes at him. Flitwick, who was sitting on Neville's other side, allowed himself a small chuckle at their antics. In their late thirties, these two war heroes still seemed to be able to behave like teenagers.

"I thought it was brilliant," Neville started and then his grin widened a little more. "I can see why you keep Hermione around." Harry smacked him on the arm.

"It'll send shockwaves," Neville said, once his countenance has regained some measure of seriousness.

"Especially coming from the Boy-Who-Lived," Harry, in a fashion, finished for him.

"What is it about?" Flitwick asked, finally joining the conversation. Harry bit his lip in thought; one the one hand, the ministry had an obligation to keep mastery theses secret, but on the other, he was convinced that his would somehow find itself into a special edition of _Daily Prophet. _The topic he would be discussing in his thesis was simply too juicy for the reporters not to want to pass it on to the public, also known as: sell papers.

"It's a controversial topic," Harry started cautiously, not looking at all how many of the faculty had turned to stare at him, waiting for him to speak. Even Minerva had interrupted her conversation with Jonathan Pike, the newest Potions' Master to hear what Harry had to say.

"And many will not agree with me, but the magical theory is sound and-"

"His thesis is about the relationship between Dark and Light magic and how very possible it is that they really aren't that different at all," Neville said swiftly, interrupting him before Harry could beat about the bush any more. Harry sent him a brief glare, but barely had time for much more as he was quickly assaulted by exclamations and counter arguments from the other professors.

"Ah," Flitwick commented, blinking rapidly. He swiftly returned to his soup. Neville rolled his eyes at Harry and murmured a quiet 'sorry'. Harry shrugged in response.

After the two had made plans to meet up later that evening to discuss Harry's thesis further, they got up, and parted ways. Harry merrily made his way to the grounds to catch one or two rare minutes of sun. Here he crossed paths with a few sixth and seventh years who, if he remembered their schedules well enough, were skiving class.

He was just nearing the boathouses when with a flash of light and fire, fawkes appeared mere centimetres away from him, lightly singing the tips of his hair.

"Fawkes!" Harry exclaimed happily. The magical creature hadn't been seen since his song of mourning on the day of Dumbledore's death. Harry wasn't certain, but he had always felt that after he had begun his career as a teacher, he had somehow felt Fawkes' spirit shadowing him every now and then. Indeed, maybe the creature had been checking up on him.

Harry found a place to sit on the massive rocks near the lake and propped up his knee. Fawkes made one or two circles above him and then softly glided down onto Harry's knee. He softly reached out and ran his fingers through the soft feathers of the bird's underbelly. Fawkes made an odd trilling sound that sounded very much like a purr.

"Ah, Fawkes, just when I needed you to pull me out of my melancholy," he commented, smiling.

The bird looked him directly in the eye and gave another soft trill, this one sadder.

"So, how do I look?" Harry turned his head this way and that, giving Fawkes a good look. "Older, yes?"

The bird gave an affirmative trill.

"Wrinkly and worn?" He continued humorously. Fawkes trilled again. Harry grinned and tilted his head up, waggling his eyebrows.

"Handsomer and wiser?"

This time Fawkes cocked his head to the side as though to say 'really'? Eventually though, he pressed his head into Harry's palm in a kind gesture of friendship.

Harry heard a few soft whispers and glanced around to see a couple of younger students passing them a few paces away. They were staring at the phoenix perched on Harry's knee. Yes, he assumed that it was an odd sight. Then again, they were probably accustomed to seeing Harry in one odd situation or other.

"I love peace, you know," Harry began once the students had moved away. "Really I do. And we lost so many people… Merlin," Harry gulped down his emotions. It had had been some time since he had last had an extreme emotional reaction to memories of the war. He had experienced much good since then, and yet, he still felt a constricting knot of emotion rise up in his throat whenever it came to talking about it.

"But gods, peace can be pretty boring…" he confessed finally. Hermione would judge him, if ever he told her something like that. Fawkes just cocked his head to the side again and looked at him with that pure gaze, impartial. "Don't you miss Dumbledore?"

Fawkes gave a sad trill and jumped down from Harry's knee and onto his stomach so that his beak was only a few centimetres from his face. The bird tucked his head into the nook of Harry's neck and gave a soft nudge.

Harry laughed faintly.

"Oh, Fawkes. I so so wish I could see him again…"

Several moments passed in silence until suddenly, he felt Fawkes stiffen in his grasp, his fluid body suddenly rigid with stress. Harry was just about to loosen his grasp and look to see what was his problem, when he felt a familiar tug in his navel. His eyes widened and—

.

"Wake up." the voice was grating and harsh. Harry groaned and rolled over to his side. "Sir, wake up! It is not permitted to sleep in London parks!" The voice continued. Harry's subconscious seemed to frown and his eyes shot open, only to be faced with a red-faced policeman, who looked rather like uncle Vernon.

"Sir, if you do not at once get up, I will be forced to arrest you!" Harry blearily blinked at him, unable to properly make him out due to his lack of glasses. "That's it! I'm taking you in!" Harry was roughly brought into a sitting position and his arms were jerked behind his back. Cold metal bit into his wrists when the handcuffs were securely tightened to the point that it was bruisingly painful. Again, without seeing much, he was dragged across what he assumed was the park and then into a large building with fancy brass doors.

The uniformed men he managed to make out were no reassurance. He was thoroughly checked for any weapons and someone finally relieved him of his wand and pouch which held all of his priceless artefacts. He was brought into what he assumed was a cell: a small toilet stood in the corner and a hard metal plank had been installed against one wand.

"24 hours in custody," announced the policeman, taking off his handcuffs and shoving him in. Harry, almost blindly, stumbled towards the hard plank and massaged his aching wrists. Was he at a muggle police station? He was quite sure he couldn't feel any magic surrounding him.

He skulked in the cell for a moment or two. Then again, stumbling towards the metal bards, he attempted to spot a policeman. No luck. Not without his glasses in any case. Apparating or using wandless magic was not a choice as he knew he would end up on muggle police records; that would not do for a Hogwarts professor. And where the hell was Fawkes? What had he done to the bird to deserve this? Merlin, he didn't even really remember what he had said to him before that pull on his navel... and off he had been.

"Can I have my legal phone call?" He called down the hallway. No response. Again he called out. Nothing. After several tries he finally heard footsteps heading his way and he gave a small sigh of relief.

"What are you yammerin' on 'bout?" A policeman said gruffly. Harry composed himself and took a more authoritative stance, which he knew always worked with students to intimidate them.

"I would like to have my phone call, sir." He added in the sir with a respectful nod. The policeman harrumphed, but even he realised that this was a legally binding part of the job.

"Follow me. An' no muckin' 'bout. You hear meh?" Harry nodded again, a little more eagerly. He would call Hermione and she would bail him out, no magic needed. He was led a little down the hallway. The policeman grabbed the phone attached to the wall and dialled a number. A few moments later, he passed the phone over to Harry.

Blindly pressing his fingers against the phone, he frowned — it seemed quite old. He knew of the phones used nowadays as Hermione herself owned one, but this one was especially odd. Out of the recesses of his mind he recalled his aunt Petunia having a house phone such as this when he had been a small child. He had been instructed to clean it of dust once a week.

The rotary dial was particularly hard to use when one wasn't able to see the numbers one was attempting to put in, but before he could do so, a voice spoke on the other side of the line.

"Hello, switchboard. Number please?" Harry didn't know what a switchboard was, but he assumed that this was simply some sort of prison procedure used to screen phone calls. He relayed Hermione's number.

"Ehm, I'm sorry," the operator said slowly. "Are those two different numbers? It's much too long, sir, I'm afraid. Are you sure you haven't gotten them mixed up somehow, sir?"

"Is a Hermione Granger there?" he asked uncertainly.

"I'm sorry sir, you must have the correct number, sir." There was a soft click and then the line died. The officer shrugged his shoulder in a way that said 'not my fault'.

Harry was led back to his cell but just as the officer was rounding a corner, Harry called out after him: "What's the date?"

"19th of June!" The officer called back. Harry's mouth floundered for a moment. It had been the 11th of May when Ron and he had duelled in the Great Hall! Maybe the magic backlash (which was incidentally the last thing he remembered) had caused some sort of tunnel in time and he had been transported almost a month into the future?

"And the year?" He called again, dreading the worst, but gained no response. The officer was gone. Hopefully he hadn't travelled years into the future — that would be a disaster, indeed!

It felt like another hour until anyone passed by his cell again. This time, there was a large commotion of people as they stopped in front of his cell.

"You can't just take him! _Our _officers picked him up!" Said a fat man to his left. A hand behind him settled on his shoulder and he felt a zap of magic. Had the aurors finally come to rescue him?

"We the secret service, have the power to relive you of your prisoners, if we see fit to do so," said a calm, controlled rice a little to Harry's left. _Secret service, my arse, _Harry thought. He could easily sense the powerful cores of the men behind him - especially in such a magic-less environment.

"Goodbye," said the man behind Harry. He was then silently led down a number of hallways… and then suddenly he felt a lurching feeling in his navel and he was transported away.

.

As it turned out, he had been deposited into another cell, this one obviously warded and secured against all kinds of magic. From what he could see, this one looked more like some sort of interrogation room. He was sitting in a chair with both hands secured against either armrest. Sitting across him, on the other side of the table sat a purple-robed man. Unspeakable?

"Name?" The man said, voice lacking all emotion.

"Er…" Hrry paused — couldn't the man _see _who he was? The scar and all, it was quite recognisable. That reminded him, however, of his other very recognisable feature: his glasses.

"Sorry, but my glasses were taken away from me. I can't see anything." He sighed, they had probably been left behind in the park. The man across him raised a wand and mumbled a spell. All of a sudden magic washed over him and when he blinked his vision had cleared. He could now see that there was a mirror behind the other man and a wall of cell bars on the wall to his left. He didn't recognise this interrogation room (and he had visited all when Kingsley had given him a tour through the auror department when trying to convince Harry to join the corps). Perhaps he was in the Department of Mysteries? They had their own active agents, too, if he remembered correctly.

"It'll wear off in a few hours," the man said dispassionately.

"Thanks," Harry replied, truly thankful. The man in the seat opposite him was large and had bushy eyebrows. His amber eyes pierced Harry with suspicion.

"Name?" He reiterated.

"Harry Potter," he stated slowly. The man showed no emotional response at all. Indeed, he simply noted that on his clipboard.

"Occupation?"

"I'm a teacher," he said, again very slowly. How could this man not know this? Was it simply for archive reasons? "Where am I? Why am I being interrogated?" The man ignored him.

"Are you aware of the date?" This time, he leaned forwards with more interest. Harry's eyebrows furrowed. What an odd question. He recalled his brief conversation with the muggle policeman that morning.

"Of course, it's the 19th of June."

"Correct." The man paused for a moment. "And the year?" Harry chuckled — did this man think he was a complete fool?

"Er, it's 2023." This time, the man's eyes widened. He took note of that on his clipboard and then he stood up. He didn't bother to straighten his robes or let Harry's wrists go from their secure place on the armrests, as was protocol when an auror left the interrogation room. Then again, he wasn't an auror. The man ran out onto the hallway and disappeared.

Harry didn't have to wait long, because a few moments later a man in his fifties (although with wizards one could never be 100% sure) dropped down into the seat across him. This man was small, frail and thin. He had small mousey face and a thin wiry moustache. He was dressed in a similar purple robe, but his had red lining and a badge on his breast, designating him as Head unspeakable.

"My name is Sebastian Griffith. I am the Head of the Department of Mysteries. You are currently in one of our holding cells," he started. His voice was squeaky and high; like a mouse. "This morning we received an alert that magic was fluctuating in St. James' Park: time particles were moving at an abnormal level, creating a sort of tunnel through time. Upon arriving on the scene we tracked you down." Griffith took a deep breath. "Sir, are you aware that you have travelled in time and are currently in the year of 1938?"

**To be continued...?**


End file.
